


Stalemate

by saturni_stellis



Category: Heat (1995)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Canon Divergence, Kissing, M/M, Post-Canon, Tending Wounds, Unresolved Sexual Tension, unspoken feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25505299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturni_stellis/pseuds/saturni_stellis
Summary: When Vincent approached him on the airfield, the glow of LAX’s runways illuminating his face, Neil thought for one surreal moment that Vincent was his guardian angel.
Relationships: Vincent Hanna/Neil McCauley
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	Stalemate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lonelywalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/gifts).



A strange kind of vulnerability befell Neil as he sat on the edge of the bed, still yet restless, while the other man's cold, oddly delicate fingers dabbed the dried blood on his shoulder. Vincent's bullet only nicked the skin, but it was enough to tear a good chunk of flesh from his arm, the force throwing him back more than the pain.

When Vincent approached him on the airfield, the glow of LAX’s runways illuminating his face, Neil thought for one surreal moment that Vincent was his guardian angel. Vincent was always looking over Neil’s shoulder, watching him from afar, assuming he knew what was best for him. But that thought was fleeting, fogged by adrenaline and blood loss. Guardian angels didn’t shoot those they protected. Though, they might drag them across an airfield and shove them into a car instead of leaving them to die.

He didn't remember the journey. They’d ended up in some crappy motel room that, according to the yellowed stationery, was on the outskirts of West Hollywood. The man who should’ve killed him had just finished sewing his wound and was wiping the last of the blood from his skin.

Neil croaked a small “thanks” as he admired the impressive stitching. At some point on their journey, Vincent must’ve stopped at a pharmacy. Neil wondered if he'd flashed his badge to avoid answering awkward questions. Maybe he’d flashed it at the motel’s front desk, too. Alarms would’ve been raised otherwise, seeing as Vincent was covered in blood. Neil’s blood.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” Neil asked, as Vincent handed him a bottle of water. Cautiously, Neil accepted it. He was too thirsty to be on his guard about everything, and the cap was sealed.

“Undercover. I got busted up pretty bad, had to take care of myself.” Vincent gestured towards Neil’s patched-up bullet wound. “That was the result.”

Neil frowned, not quite believing the story, but like the bottle of water, he accepted it.

“So, you gonna call it in, or what?” Neil asked.

There was a brief pause. Everything thus far seemed to have been acted on a whim. There was no sense nor reason behind any of it, not since Vincent missed, and Neil was starting to wonder if that was deliberate or if he’d been aiming for his heart all along.

“That seems like the best move,” Vincent said from where he stood beside the door, watching Neil cautiously.

Neil was in no state to run. He wasn’t even dressed properly. Vincent had ripped his shirt off to get to the wound, using its sleeve as a makeshift tourniquet while he’d worked on him; it lay crumpled at Neil’s feet now, more crimson than white. There were probably less than fifty dollars in his wallet, which wouldn’t get him far, and fuck knows if the cops had gotten Nate; he couldn't risk contacting him. As always, Neil was on his own.

Their eyes met across the small, dimly lit room.

Why hadn't Vincent called it in at the airport? Why bring him all the way out here for some messy first aid, only to wait for… what? Some sort of resolve between them? It wasn't like Neil had anything to turn over. Vincent didn't need anything from him. Except, perhaps...

Neil felt lightheaded. Vincent had given him some painkillers prior to that first needle through his skin, and they were only now starting to kick in. He blinked away a rush of dizziness that didn’t feel like any painkillers Neil knew. Had Vincent drugged him?

“You're woozy,” Vincent said, rushing over. “You lost a lot of blood. Drink some more water.”

Neil shook his head. He felt queasy, but not enough to vomit or pass out. It probably was the blood loss, but he wasn't about to admit that. There was something about appearing weak in front of Vincent that didn't sit well with him.

“I'm good,” Neil mumbled, and he realised that Vincent's hand was at his neck. Again, oddly delicate fingers touched the back of his head as though to keep it upright.

Neil took Vincent’s wrist without hostility and pushed it away gently, as though proving he still had the upper hand and that he didn’t need Vincent’s concern.

“What are we doing here, Lieutenant?” he asked, completely coherent, still holding Vincent’s wrist. The question wasn’t about their physical location, and Vincent's jaw tightened as though he knew exactly what Neil meant.

“I'm bringing you in, like I said.”

Neil’s grip tightened around Vincent’s wrist. “That's not what you said.”

Vincent swallowed, and Neil saw it play out on his face as clear as day: he had no intention of sending Neil to jail. He'd rather have killed him on that airfield than see him bundled into the back of a cop car like some cheap thug. When his bullets missed and Neil fell, injured like a poor, pathetic animal, Vincent had no choice. He'd played his turn and made a bad move. Now it was Neil's go.

He tugged Vincent closer by his arm, giving him that push he needed, making the decision for him. Vincent leant in first.

Their lips met, and Neil gave himself into the kiss. It hadn’t been his plan, but then there was no plan to any of this, was there? He'd be lying to himself if he said he didn't want it. An alarm had sounded in Neil’s head when they came face to face in that coffee shop, and it had been getting progressively louder ever since. As they kissed on a crappy motel bed, Vincent nearly straddling his lap while being careful not to touch his wounded arm, the alarm finally silenced, replaced by the soft hum erupting from his throat when Vincent's tongue swept across his bottom lip.

Neil had more strength than he realised. He pulled Vincent forward, turning them both onto the bed. Vincent let himself be pinned beneath the weight of Neil’s body, let Neil’s good hand wander.

Neil smiled into the kiss, not out of deceit, but because he was pleasantly humbled by the other man’s eagerness. Though, as the kiss deepened and Vincent's hands ran through Neil's hair, he couldn’t help but calculate how long they could realistically do this for. How far would Vincent be prepared to go, and what might happen after? Could he really let his guard down that much?

He’d have to take a gamble.

Neil’s good arm slid down Vincent's front, passing across the tent in the lieutenant's pants. His gut lurched. This was a want like he'd never felt, and it only grew when Vincent groaned into his mouth, their lips parting as they breathed against each other.

Metal clicked. Neil muttered a weak yet deeply honest apology against Vincent's mouth as his own handcuffs closed around his wrist, locking him to the bedframe.

“You son-of-a-bitch, McCauley!” Vincent snapped, thrashing, only smacking the bed against the wall.

Sliding from the bed, Neil stood, finding his legs a lot weaker than anticipated. He took Vincent's jacket off the back of the chair he'd thrown it across when they first arrived and took out his wallet. There wasn’t much cash in it, but it was enough to get him out of the state.

“What makes you think we weren't followed here, huh?” Vincent yelled, though he’d stopped struggling against the cuffs. “You think I don't have a whole squad out there waiting for you to step out of this fuckin' room!”

Neil shook his head as he pulled his blood-stained shirt back on. He put Vincent's jacket over it, buttoning it so it hid the blood to the best of its ability. In this part of town, he doubted people would bat an eyelid anyway.

“Don't insult me by lying to me, Vincent,” he said, emptying Vincent's jacket pockets onto the bed. Empty wallet. Badge. Car keys.

Vincent scowled up at him. He was still hard.

“I told you I’m sorry,” Neil said, bending to touch his lips to Vincent's again.

“Like shit, you are.”

Pulling back so they could look at each other, he scanned Vincent's face for any genuine anger. When he didn't find it, he flashed the other man a smile. “Next time, we'll pick up from where we left off.”

This time, Vincent really did look like he wanted to kill him.

“I told you I ain't ever goin' back,” Neil whispered, and Vincent's expression softened, as though accepting defeat.

“Yeah,” was all Vincent managed in return, as though it was paramount that he had to have the last word.

Before Neil left, he looked back at Vincent once more, but not for a beat too long, for he feared the temptation to stay would overcome him.


End file.
